


A Place We Can Call Home

by scarlet_red_as_blood



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Injury, Not Strictly Canon, Pre-Gondolin, Self-Indulgent, Sparring, Violence, a kind of heartfelt talk?, mentions of gondolin, not actually as funny as it looks, some attempted comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:40:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24771781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarlet_red_as_blood/pseuds/scarlet_red_as_blood
Summary: How Glorfindel and Ecthelion met in Beleriand, and how they decided to go to Gondolin despite it clearly being a very bad idea.
Relationships: Ecthelion of the Fountain & Glorfindel
Kudos: 7





	A Place We Can Call Home

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I am bad at summaries.  
> This is the first fic I've ever published!! I got bored of editing it, so if the quality of writing goes downhill that's totally my fault XD
> 
> Also, like the tags say it's not actually a funny fic, which I realised the description could make it out to be.. oops

When rumours of an elf who was remained unbeaten when sparring reached Glorfindel’s ears, he laughed. No-one was unbeatable, they simply hadn’t found the right tactic. Two weeks later, when such claims persisted, he decided to see for himself what the fuss was about. Arriving at the training ground a mere hour after sunrise, he saw nothing unusual. A mixed group of Noldor and Sindar sat around the sparring ring, seemingly waiting for a match to begin and so he joined them, figuring this must be where the mysterious elf was to arrive. 

Just as he was beginning to feel the slight tug of boredom, a petite tanned Noldo made his way through the crowd, a wide grin on his face. His black hair was tied in an intricate set of braids (which Glorfindel would never be bothered with), and he held a twin set of training swords in his hands. He didn’t look at all like a warrior, and until the crowd started cheering he had thought this elf to be a foolish challenger – turns out this was the unbeatable elf everyone had been talking about. 

The elf in the training circle walked around for a minute, swinging his blades slowly and humming a children’s tune. Most would ignore this, yet Glorfindel felt the shift in the air that suggested power. The elf turned in a lazy circle, his grin appearing as more of a self-assured smirk.

“Does anyone here today wish to challenge me?”

He owned a musical voice, yet he sounded bored. Smug, yes, but also incredibly bored, as if he didn’t truly believe anyone would step forward. When a brave young Sinda stepped forward, his expression shifted to one of victory. Clearly, he thought this was to be an easy win. 

Which, it was in the end. That stupid, clearly self-centred elf won within a minute of the match starting. It didn’t even look like he had tried either; he was sweat free and didn't look even a bit bothered. However, in good fashion he did offer the younger elf a hand up and helped him out of the ring before calling out to the crowd again:

“I’m warmed up now! Any more challengers?”

It went on like this for the next four matches the elf fought in and yet he still hadn’t broken a sweat. His attitude was starting to get on Glorfindel’s nerves - evidently he thought himself better than the others present and he didn’t even bother to hide it. Eventually, it came as no surprise that after an internal battle, Glorfindel gave in and stepped forward.

“I would accept your challenge, if you would but lend me a blade.”

Clearly this intrigued the other, for the previous challengers had come prepared for a fight and so evidently the fact that Glorfindel was acting on impulse was fascinating. Frowning, the elf replied.

“I have none but the blades I hold - would not they be too short for an elf like you?”

“A reference to my height no doubt, though it draws attention more to your lack thereof.”

“A fair observation, yet have you considered the intent was to draw attention to the difference?”

“Aye, that I have. However I think it was simply a convenient mistake, for height is a deciding factor in the outcome of battle.”

“Indeed, the taller are more often hindered by their lack of co-ordination.”

“Yet the shorter cannot reach high enough to kill an enemy.”

“The intention is not always to kill.”

“No, but it’s the only true way to win.”

“Should I kill you then, to prove victorious?”

“You may try, but my death would not be well received even if you managed to beat me.”

“Death is never well received, no matter the fact you give permission.”

“You’re awfully confident you will prevail.”

“I have reason to be”

“Aye, that you do.”

The elf nodded approvingly and handed Glorfindel a blade. Standing at opposite ends of the ring, their eyes met and they nodded to one another – they were ready to fight. The blonde attacked first, but his attacks were quickly blocked and retaliated. Their battle went back and forth, neither gaining the upper hand for an exceedingly long time. Much of the audience had left to seek food, for in the many hours since the two elves met in the training circle, neither had yet fallen. The darker elf ducked from the attack to his head, before spinning to hold his blade at his opponents throat, just as Glorfindel thrust his sword forwards. Both would have died were it a real fight, blades both threatening each other’s throats. The match was a draw. 

The crowd around them was silent, before the first elf started to clap. Slowly, more and more joined in until they heard nothing but a cheering mass of people, all amazed at what they had witnessed.

Presently, the mysterious elf lowered his sword and reached out for Glorfindel to hand the other back. As he did so, he met the other’s eyes, both staring at each other until they broke out smiling.

“Well, you’re not half bad.”

Glorfindel blinked once. Then he blinked twice. He had not been expecting a compliment from the elf he challenged. Frowning, he responded.

“Neither are you.”

“Perhaps your skill will improve, as tomorrow I challenge you to a rematch.”

“So soon? Would you not rather train first?”

“With whom would I do that? You have seen with your own eyes how none but you even come close to matching my skill.”

“Come close? I nearly beat you.”

“Aye, ‘nearly’. But you did not, therefore I shall continue to assume I am the better fighter.”

“You lost as well.”

“But I also won.”

“Bastard.”

“You’re just a sore loser.”

“And you are evidently nothing more than an elfling, in mind and body.”

“I can assure you I am no elfling.”

“Hm? How far past your majority are you then? Your attitude and height do nothing to help your case.”

“That business is my own, not yours.”

“Okay, Elfling.”

The elf glared, without seeming actually annoyed. In fact, he seemed far from it – almost joyful at having been recognised as younger than most fighters.

“Well, I suppose I shall see you tomorrow Challenger.”

“Do you not wish to know my name, Elfling?”

“You have not asked mine.”

“You speak true. Would you answer if I asked?”

The other cocked his head to the side for a moment and hummed before he answered the question.

“No.”

Their challenges and banter went on for many a week after - it was a daily occurrence. Every day, a crowd of varying size would come down to watch the sparring match, which had become somewhat famous around the area. 

On the day of their thirty-fourth duel, a new face was seen in the crowd of spectators: Turgon, soon to be King of Gondolin. He had heard tales of the two fighters in the ring, how everyday they would draw, how no other had defeated either of them. He watched their dance, the way they fought around each other, and he saw what no-one else had: they were no longer fighting to win, for both had the capability if they wanted to. They fought for fun, knowing this would not be a privilege they could keep in the coming years. With this realisation, something fell into place in his mind, and he realised he needed to speak with the fighters as soon as was possible.

They drew yet again, and the crowds had disappeared. Turgon approached the famed pair of elves as they mocked each other, criticising skills and imitating parts of the fight. Sensing his approach, they turned to him, a curious light in the blonde’s eyes and anger in the others. He knew he was interrupting something, yet he found he did not care. If he was going to ask these elves, it needed to be done sooner rather than later, when it was too late. 

“A commendable fight have I seen this morn, but would not it be greater if either side had the intention of victory?”

Suspicion flashed in both sets of eyes before him, but it was the dark elf who spoke next with a hint of annoyance in his voice.

“Would that I bid you keep such an opinion to yourself, Lord, certainly I do not welcome it, and most assured am I that my opponent does not either.”

“Welcome or not, it is given. And in truth I wish for an answer, no matter how trivial it may seem.”

“An answer you may wish for, yet an answer you shall not receive. Not from I at least.”

Glorfindel shifted his weight from side to side, beginning to feel rather uncomfortable and as a result becoming restless. In truth he just wished for them to be left alone to bicker, then go for some afternoon tea. Mentally he sighed, physically he cleared his throat, gaining both dark haired elves attention. 

“I see clearly that this will get nowhere – this particular question may be asked many times, with no answer forthcoming. However, I myself have a question: what a lord of the Noldor is doing here, watching our duel and proceeding to approach its participants. Behaviour such as this seems not normal to me, and I’m sure the young one here agrees.”

Anger flashed once again through the young one’s eyes, but he stayed silent, for he also wished for an answer to this question. Turgon met Glorfindel’s searching eyes, saw the spark of curiosity morph into a small flame. The warrior knew who he was, but not his purpose.

“Mighty warriors are you both,” Turgon began, taking note of their reactions. “Yet, I have seen mightier. Mayhap you would join me – to meet my friends and discuss a possible future.”

“A possible future being that of your hidden city,” sneered the dark one. “I have heard rumours – it is not to great interest of me. Secrecy never ends well; all it leads to is misery and doom.”

“I admit, the future does have to do with Gondolin as it has been named, but I assure you I can sway your views.”

“An unlikely chance, Lord. I am afraid I must reject your offer, though I feel my opponent is more open to negotiations than I.”

The blonde looked up from his friend to Turgon and sighed. He kept stressful company those days, and many more after it. 

“I admit to being intrigued, for I have heard tell of a hidden city and long has it piqued my interest. I shall accompany you to meet these friends of yours, and I count myself as a representative also for my friend here.”

“If that is how you will it, I will not stop you. I will allow time to clean yourself up, then we must leave with all haste. This is an operation most successful carried out swiftly.”

“Of course, My Prince.”

And so it happened that Glorfindel accompanied Turgon to a small gathering of elves, all clearly remarkable for one reason or another. Quickly they were introduced: Duilin, Galdor, Rog, Egalmoth, Salgant and Penlod. It was soon revealed that Turgon wished for these elves to accompany him to Gondolin, to become mighty Lords of the city, help him keep peace and order among the citizens, and defend it if needed. This led to a mighty debate, though soon all but Glorfindel and Duilin agreed to accompany the soon-to-be King, who curiously questioned them.

“If my asking does not cause offence, friends, then why do you reject my offer?”

It was Duilin who responded to the King first, although not without clearly structuring his answer in the best way to avoid conflict or misunderstanding.

“I think – in all due respect – that a hidden city may not be wise. You say you follow the council of Lord Ulmo, yet also it has been said you were counselled to prepare for a messenger of hope. To I, this sounds like preparations for the great city to fall. I believe not in building a something without the expectation for it to stay standing. Easy targets of the enemy would we be if we were discovered, and great would be the destruction.”

Turgon nodded in thought, but turned to Glorfindel, wishing for another answer to his question before responding. The blonde shook his head slightly, before beginning to speak.

“Before I answer, I would have you remember I am not only present for myself, but for my friend as well. Know I not his name, yet he raised a most valid point. Alongside Duilin’s concerns, in which I share equally, secrets are not a wise solution. Would our enemy hear whispers of Gondolin as it is so called, his wrath would be great, and he would indeed start a great search, endangering many a life. Bringing the anger of the Dark Vala down upon those you would seek to lead.”

Considering this greatly, Turgon thought out his response as best he could to ease their fears.

“Although – as you say – we may be building Gondolin ready for destruction, I do not believe it would come swiftly, if at all. Many a meaning could be taken from one of the Valar, and oft in the past have I wished to not have taken their advice so straightforwardly. Many a meaning could come from the messenger of hope. True is it also that the enemy may hear whispers, yet that is all they will be. Already I have begun creating laws, and the cities existence is of the utmost secrecy. I cannot imagine we will be doing anything to draw attention to ourselves.”

Back and forth went their speech, and so it ended with Duilin hesitantly agreeing to go, and Glorfindel refusing for both him and his sparring partner. 

A while passed in the eyes of man (yet not so for the Eldar), before anything of note occurred to tell in this tale. After Turgons meeting, a friendship had sparked between Glorfindel and his competitor, although they were not yet close enough for the exchanging of names. Thus, they began to enjoy each other’s companionship outside of their sparring, often leading them on horse trails surrounding their camp. Grudgingly, the darker elf had revealed his horse’s name to be Lómë, which Glorfindel found to be fitting. 

They had been out for little more than an hour, riding around the borders of the trees in the area. Long since had it been when they learnt to be wary of the woods in Beleriand – they were dangerous, and not all who went in came out. The pair had not spoken for most of their trip, and when they did it quickly escalated into insults and threats. A strange pair they made, yet slowly they had built up a need for the other – trust, rare though it was in these days. As such, when they heard screaming coming faintly from the distance, neither hesitated to ride forwards, neither needing to confirm their companion followed them.

The pair raced over the hills, soon seeing the source of the distressed cries. A group of young elves, the oldest barely 50 years old, surrounded by a large pack of orcs. The elves were so far from the encampment that Glorfindel could not help but wonder why they were out here. Pushing his horse Losse to the absolute limit, they galloped to the group and drew their weapons. Much to Glorfindel’s surprise, instead of his twin blades, his companion drew a sword instead – it was curved slightly in a classically Sindar style. He supposed a sword made sense for a fight on horseback, but he had never thought companion to be skilled using a single weapon.

Pushing the thoughts out of his head, he braced himself for the fight. Raising his sword as they came upon the enemy, he swung and slashed many down – the orcs could do nothing against the golden rider. Briefly he acknowledged that his friend had been thrown from Lómë, only to now be fighting on the ground, ferociously killing any he could reach. The young elves had backed away from the fight, seeming to retain some of their wits, although a few of the nearer orcs pursued them. Seeing this the dark-haired elf let out a high-pitched whistle, causing his horse to run after them, placing itself between Morgoth’s servants and the children. 

After what seemed much too long a time Glorfindel swung his sword, cleanly decapitated the last orc on the slaughter field. Piles of dead enemy bodies lay everywhere, and both he and his horse were drenched in black blood. Dismounting, he saw Losse had sustained many injuries in the fighting, but none were lethal. He himself only had a few scratches on account of the orcs being unable to reach him. He could not immediately see his companion, but when he did his heart nearly stopped. Not only was he covered in black blood, but he held his sword arm from where it hung at his side, drenched in red. Glorfindel attempted to run to his side, but instead clumsily stumbled over the pile of corpses. 

“I see you are injured, my friend. May I be permitted to look, and acquire the knowledge of how such a thing came about?”

“Aye, I may recount the brief tale, though not now. We came here to perform a rescue, and not yet have we completed our task.”

He nodded to the group of children huddled behind Lómë and Losse, who had recently trotted over. Sighing, Glorfindel knew he could not get his companion to do anything until they were back at camp with the elflings safe. Together they made their way slowly to them, for any sudden movements made his friends arm scream in pain, although the only evidence for this was the occasional deep intake of breath or slight gasp when it particularly hurt. Glorfindel approached the children slowly - blade sheathed - and held his hands up before speaking. 

“My friends, are any of you hurt? Would that I know so we may heal it quickly.”

A taller silver-haired elf (presumably the oldest) stepped forward slightly and spoke:

“Save us you did, and you have our thanks. Although the orcs came upon my kin and I suddenly, none of us are injured. I should think the only problem would be that we shall be shaken for quite a while after such an ordeal. May I ask your names? I would not wish to return home with nameless strangers, no matter the deeds they did for us. If it helps, I myself am named Aerindel.”

“A lovely name you hold Aerindel, though I am ashamed I know not it’s meaning. In your tongue my name is Glorfindel.”

“A very fitting name indeed, Golden-Haired. Would it be too forward to ask your companions name, or is there a reason for such secrecy?”

To this the injured elf frowned, shaking his head slowly before he replied, still looking uneasy.

“No reason other than the air of mystery - a poor excuse in this situation. I myself am named Ecthelion in the Sindarin tongue.”

At that Glorfindel snorted slightly, trying not to let too much of his amusement show through.

“Sharp-Willed indeed, for though I have known you long, only now have I discovered your name.”

“There was no such need for you to know, and if not for this unfortunate event you would still be ignorant as the day we met.”

“How my heart aches to hear that my friend, for was I wrong in believing we were growing closer?”

“I can confirm you made no mistakes, for closer we did grow. Yet I have always believed names hold power, though perhaps that is a conversation for another time. Currently, we need to focus on returning these youngsters home safely.”

He brushed past Glorfindel, going straight to the youngest elves with Lómë at his heel, helping them to mount so that they could return faster. It had to be said, even with him arm half-severed from his body, Ecthelion did not give up until his four children sat on his steed’s back. Sighing, Glorfindel helped the remaining three onto Losse, though Aerindel elected to walk with them instead of riding. 

It took time, but just as the sun began to set, the group returned to the camp. Glorfindel’s clothes were sticking to him more now with sweat than blood, for the heat had been unforgiving, and their hurried pace made it worse. However, he did regret to say he had forgotten about Ecthelion’s injury on the journey, and now his friend looked akin to a walking corpse. Upon their arrival, they had been greeted by some of the older inhabitants of the village, and a group of awfully worried parents. Ecthelion didn’t stay around long though. In fact, as soon as all the children had dismounted, he led Lómë away towards the grazing field, slowly taking off the riding gear as he went. Glorfindel was horrified, but he couldn’t get away from the grateful parents fast enough to follow his friend in attempt to stop him hurting himself further. 

After much too long a time, Glorfindel finally managed to get away from the elves, leading a now riderless Losse away. In reality, it had been Aerindel ‘s dramatic retelling of events that drew away attention, and he was sure it was because the younger elf also saw Ecthelion’s departure. 

He jogged to the grazing fields, but the smaller elf was nowhere in sight. In fact, the only evidence he had ever been there was his horse, and the small splash of blood on the corner of the fence. Sighing, Glorfindel guided his own horse into the field and removed her gear before attempting to follow Ecthelion. Of course, this would have been much easier if Arien was still riding through the sky. Instead, he had to make do with the significantly dimmer moonlight. 

Although he liked to think himself an experienced tracker, it seemed Ecthelion was better at hiding than anticipated. If not for injury and the trail of dripping blood left behind, it was incredibly unlikely that Glorfindel would ever have been able to find him. He was found at the outskirts of the camp - near the training area – making a sling for his arm, though it appeared he had not bothered to clean or bandage it. Sighing, Glorfindel carefully walked round and crouched in front of his friend, gently catching his shaking hands and stopping him from attempting to tie a knot tight enough to hold. He spoke softly, as if to a frightened animal, for surely that was how the other was acting. 

“You realise you will only make it worse?”

“I don’t care. I just need out of the way.”

“Out of the way until you lose your entire arm? Wise move.”

Ecthelion growled at him, silver eyes flashing dangerously. He pulled away, attempted to stand yet soon he lost his footing, ungraciously falling. Stubborn and not by any means one to give up, he went to try again but Glorfindel held him down. 

“I’m serious. I do not know what happened, but you could very well lose your arm.”

“I know! I’ll sort it out. Alone.” 

“Why? So you can neglect yourself? Let me help – at the very least I can clean your wound, and I’m sure if it needs stitches – ”

“No!”

“What?”

“I mean... no stitches. Although it would be wise to let you clean it, as I cannot see the wound well enough to do it myself. In fact, I can’t see well enough at all. I only know you because of your hair… friend?”

Glorfindel chuckled slightly before replying.

“Friend? Yes, we are friends although long was I under the impression you didn’t like me.”

“Are you going to help me or tease me? One option sounds significantly better than the other.”

“Okay, okay! I’m going to go and find some water, though I will be back as soon as I can be.”

Finding water was easier said than done. The river water was dirty, and it hadn’t rained in too long. He didn’t have time to heat anything to sterilise it, and considering this was only a temporary camp before everyone settled down into their actual homes in towns and cities that had not yet been built, they lacked an effective sewage system. He sighed, about to give up when he remembered that there was always a supply of clean water to give to the horses when it was needed. It was strange to think that the horses got clean water when the elves didn’t, but then again, the elves wouldn’t die of any disease it may contain.

Sneaking into the supply shed, he found what he was looking for. He had brought a small bucket - not much water was needed. After filling the bucket nearly to the top, he slipped out again, briefly stopping at his ‘home’ to grab some alcohol. It wasn’t the same as what the healers used, but seeing as there were no healers and they were short on supplies, it seemed like a decent alternative. 

When he got back, two thoughts crossed his mind. Ecthelion was still there – that’s a good sign, however Ecthelion hasn’t moved at all – most definitely not a good sign. Rushing over without spilling the water or dropping the alcohol, he saw that his friend was still alive, merely unconscious. He debated waking him up, but considering he was still breathing and he’d most likely have to put up with many sarcastic complaints, Glorfindel decided against it. So instead, he sat down by the injured one’s side, and slowly began peeling his shirt away. It was ripped from where the blade had struck his shoulder which would have made it easier to move if it wasn’t stuck to the skin with dried blood. 

After trying many things (Including trying to remove it thread by thread) Glorfindel decided the only way to remove it was to cut it off. Why the hell Ecthelion had worn a long-sleeved shirt on such a hot day was a mystery, and right now it was most definitely an inconvenience. Considering he didn’t actually have a blade small enough or thin enough for the task, he looked around for an alternative, eyes finally settling on one of Ecthelions glistening hair ornaments. They must at least have a hook to have stayed on during the fighting, so he reached over and took a delicate one in the shape of a butterfly. Surprisingly, not only were the sides hooked to keep it in place, but it also had a surprisingly long blade on the end. It was slightly concerning and Glorfindel wondered how he managed not to stab himself when putting it in. It seemed like it could possibly be an incredibly over-the-top letter opener. 

Frowning, but realising it was perfect for the job, Glorfindel began to cut away the light blue and silky shirt from his friend shoulder. Sometimes, skin came off with the material and Ecthelion would tense in his sleep, but he never awoke, which Glorfindel counted as a small blessing. However, when the wound was out in the open, he really wished he had just left his friend alone. It was deep – certainly deep enough to leave a scar – and it was still bleeding. At this point in his life, it was one of the more disturbing wounds he had seen, and he foolishly hoped it would stay like that.

Shaking his head, Glorfindel got to work as well as he could with cleaning the wound, which would have been considerably easier if a large percentage of the blood hadn’t dried. When at last he decided this was the best it was going to get, he poured some of the alcohol onto and around the wound, occasionally rubbing some in with a piece of cloth. Afterwards, he attempted to bandage Ecthelion’s shoulder, which in theory was easy, but in practise was not at all. He had never bothered learning any of the healing arts back in Aman, and it just wasn’t a priority of his in the Hither Lands. He cursed his foolishness - he really should have known better.

The next morning, Glorfindel went to check on his friend, who was currently sleeping in his bed after being carried there the previous night on account of the fact he had no clue where Ecthelion lived, and he was quite worried about infection as well. As it turned out, he entered the room just in time as Ecthelion was beginning to wake up, appearing confused. When he saw Glorfindel standing nearby, he tried to speak but ended up coughing instead. After a second failed attempt, he tried sitting up instead, which was unsurprisingly unsuccessful. Seeing this last endeavour, Glorfindel helped his friend up before offering him a glass of water, which was accepted and downed in one. This time, Ecthelion cleared his throat before attempting to speak.

“Why am I not in my own home?”

It was a simple, yet unbelievable question, which Glorfindel had no intention of answering, instead replying with a question of his own.

“How are you feeling?”

Ecthelion glared.

“You do not answer a question with a question. Why am I not at home?”

“I asked a more valid question: How are you feeling?”

“Answer me, Glorfindel!”

To the blonde’s surprise, Ecthelion’s musical voice had risen a few octaves, near hysterical.

“Ecthelion, please calm down.”

“Answer me!”

“You’re… You’re injured. It’s not pretty, and I couldn’t leave you alone,” then in a last ditch attempt at humour, he added, “Also, I don’t know where you live.”

If he expected a positive reaction, he was sorely mistaken, for Ecthelion glared even more then started whimpering. He didn’t know what was wrong, but Glorfindel was pretty sure this wasn’t a normal reaction to someone treating your wound. 

“Ecthelion?”

“I want to go home.”

“What?

“I want to go home.”

“If you tell me where your home is I can take you there, but I’ll have to stay with you to make sure– “

“No!” He had begun curling in on himself at this point, edging ever closer to a breakdown. “I mean I want to go home, where things like this don’t happen.”

Oh. Oh. What was he meant to respond with? Comforting words? A promise it will all be alright? No, there was nothing he could say to make his friend feel better. Nothing at all to console someone who missed their old life. They were doomed, they both knew that. They had already turned down their chance to go back.

“Ecthelion… I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault I left.”

“No, but I’m sorry for your pain. I… I want to go home too.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“But you always seemed so at peace here.”

“So did you.”

“It’s nice, but it’s not home. I shouldn’t have come.”

“None of us should have. We just didn’t realise.”

“Now we do. Now it’s too late. Now we’re doomed.”

“I think we were always doomed.”

“We didn’t use to be.”

“We must have been. Since we were born, we’ve always been doomed.”

“If that’s true, it wasn’t our fault.”  
“No, it wasn’t.”

A while later, when they had sat in silence together on the bed, Glorfindel began to change Ecthelion’s bandage.

“Glorfindel?

“Yes?”

“Maybe we should go with Turgon.”

“Really? I’m sure he doesn’t like us, and positive you don’t like him.”

“No, I don’t like him but – ow – it makes sense. A hidden city.”

“How do you figure?”

“Well, it keeps people safe. We wouldn’t have to ride out and save senseless elflings again.”

“It’s a cage. We’d be trapped, counting down the days until the Dark Lord finds us.”

“He’ll find us either way. Maybe in a hidden city it’ll take longer.”

“Is it worth it?”

“No. But we’re going to die anyway.”

“True, my friend. We’ll talk to Turgon tomorrow.”

“No, you’ll talk to Turgon tomorrow. I’ll not say a word.”

“A good idea. You didn’t get off on the right foot.”

“I hate him.”

“I know.”

And so, as can be assumed, the following morning Glorfindel set off before Ecthelion awoke. It was a hard task to find Turgon, although it was common knowledge he still resided with their camp. In the end he was found by the outskirts, staring into the west like a tall, beautiful and heartsick puppy. He sensed the blondes approach, turning slightly so as to seem more inviting. They stood together in silence, Turgon patiently waiting until the other spoke.

“I – well my friend and I – have been thinking about this hidden city you speak of.”

“Am I to assume you have come to give me a final decision?”

“Aye, though it may not be what you may expect. We wish to accept your offer, if it still stands after we turned you down.”

“My heart is relieved to hear it! My offer still stands, and it gives me much hope that warriors such as yourselves will become lords of my city.”

“It was not a decision made lightly, my lord.”

“Nay, I can imagine it wasn’t. Your friend, what is his name? For much as I wish for him to become a lord, he shall not be well received as a nameless nobody.”

Glorfindel laughed, and Turgon frowned slightly.

“What amuses you so, Lord?

“Your determination, friend. For many you invited as your lords, yet their names you did not know.”

“I know who I need with me Glorfindel. It matters not whether I know their names to begin with, for it neither adds not deprives their talents.”

“The logic in that argument is plain to see, and for that I shall reveal his name. He goes by Ecthelion, the strange creature he is – he was reluctant for me to know, only upon accident it was revealed to me.”

“You make a strange pair, you and Ecthelion.”

“I’m glad I met him.”

“Aye, I can imagine you are.”

So it came to pass that the preparations for their departure to Gondolin finished. Ecthelions shoulder had nearly healed, yet it still caused pain from time to time, and it was doubtful this would ever stop. Turgon had invited his future lords to come with him before the city was finished, to help build, or direct how their house was to be created. Glorfindel and Ecthelion were welcomed with open arms, and although they knew they were soon to be pitted against each other in a war of politics, conflicting interests and secret alliances, they quickly became something akin to friends. Turgon and Ecthelions hateful relationship had not ended, but a mutual respect had grown between them and mostly they just avoided each other anyway. 

Whilst the other lords left with Turgon, Glorfindel and Ecthelion stayed behind a week longer. They had grown quite attached to the little community to which they belonged. On the last morning before they were to finally depart, they two sat atop a hill outside the camp – which was fast becoming a village, although it had not originally been meant as a permanent settlement – and stared out at their home for the last significant period of their lives. Finally, the silver elf spoke up.

“It’s a shame really, to leave this place behind.”

“True, although soon we will have a new place to call home.”

“Will it be the same? Temporary or not, this village was the first place we found peace on this side of the sea.”

“We will find it again, friend.”

“Aye, though it won’t be the same kind.”

“That’s to be expected.”

“Of course.”

They sat in silence again, and soon the sun had risen further, and they reckoned it must be nearly midday. Just a mere couple of hours before they were to leave.

“Glorfindel?” 

The voice was quiet, not hesitant, but almost sad.

“Yes?”

“Spar with me. One last time.”

Glorfindel fully turned his body to face his friend, humming thoughtfully.

“We can still spar in Gondolin. It won’t be the last time.”

“It will. The last time we spar like the day we met.”

He smiled softly and looked into Ecthelion’s eyes. His friend needed this, one final reminder of his happiest days before they locked themselves in a glistening cage disguised as paradise. He nodded slowly, realising he needed it too.

“Come on then. But I’m not losing.”

“I would expect nothing less, my dearest friend.”

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I hope you enjoyed! If you read the whole thing, well done! This ended up with about 2% of the original plot, and 98% of me having no clue what was going on but rolling with it anyway. I feel like I should apologise for my overuse of commas as well XD
> 
> According to my googling skills:  
> \- Lómë (Ecthelion's horse) = dusk / twilight  
> \- Losse (Glorfindels horse) = snow
> 
> Drop a comment if you feel like it - I'd love to know your thoughts, and if there's anything you think could help improve my writing in future work!


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